


Seven of Eleven

by Kittywitch



Series: A Society of Academics [1]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Gen, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:12:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1750718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittywitch/pseuds/Kittywitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate universe where all incarnations of the Doctor are professors at a university in 1863, technology has advanced in bizarre leaps. This does not prevent people falling to personal foibles, as several of their number display. This was largely written as an exercise, to expand this AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. X- Wrath

            The man was called Starling. It wasn't his name, but in his line of work people were rarely called by their names. He'd found a reference to the bird in a volume of the full works of William Shakespeare; and the word rather stuck with him, so he assumed it as a pseudonym. Until recently, Starling had worked for Mr. Brandywine. Sadly, Mr. Brandywine had recently found himself unable to employ anyone at all, and Starling the rest of his lot had all quickly sought employment elsewhere. For some, that was other men better at deciding where to point a musket than pointing it themselves. For others, it was joining the quiet masses that they had until recently been pointing muskets at. For Starling, that was finding a handful of other unemployed fellows and telling them where to point.

 

            Tonight, it was in an English orphanage. Even Starling thought it was bit trite, really, a band of disreputable miscreants breaking into a building largely filled with unfortunate, innocent children. Only somewhat less trite was that some duchess of something-or-other, some county Starling and his Bostonian accent didn't want to attempt to pronounce, was making a noble call that night, offering charity on a hobbyist scale. He was simply helping her help the lower class, really. Specifically, she would be helping him. Of course, he wouldn't be getting anything directly from her, but surely her estate would be only too willing to arrange for her safety. The orphans were just an added bonus. All he needed was to be inside the orphanage.

 

            And orphanages were fairly easy to break into.

 

            This was how Starling found himself walking stealthily along rows of small cots. The duchess, he had been told by a matron so hysterical he was simply forced to calm her with a bit of chloroform, had been looking in on the children as they went down for the night, stroking their hair, singing, reading, trying as desperately as possible to give the impression she actually cared about the orphans (this was an assumption on the part of Mr. Starling, the matron seemed quite impressed with the duchess' goodwill), and had fallen asleep among them. Now it was merely a matter of finding the one adult form bent over one of several dozen of small beds.

 

            There was a clattering noise from the opposite end of the room. The man called Starling looked up and stared at the window. A tall, slender figure in a tailored suit had just clambered through it, and then stumbled into a small table with a washbasin. He wore goggles on top of his head, as was the style at the time. Sometimes they were actually quite useful, but these were clearly for the sake of fashion as the lenses were mismatched. Hs whole appearance was clearly for the sake of fashion; this scrawny Beau Brummel figure in a neatly tailored suit, short sporting boots and that artfully disarrayed hair dandies wore. As most fashionable men did, he looked ridiculous, particularly breaking into an orphanage at two in the morning, The curious thing about the man was that he had clearly intended to stumble into the washbasin; because he had evidently climbed up the side of the building without making a noise, opened the window and entered with equal silence, and then deliberately made a noise to get Starling's attention. This man was not a fool, but he had just attempted to hide that fact from the man called Starling.

            The thin man steadied the washbasin and put a finger to his lips.

            "We wouldn't want to wake the children." he smiled.

            "Who the devil are you?" hissed Starling.

            "I'm a representative from the local college!" the thin man said brightly. "The education of these little tots is an important matter!" He smiled down at one of the sleeping children.

He lowered his voice.

            "Although, if we're going to continue this conversation, I think we ought to do it away from the children. We wouldn't want to disturb their sleep." He smiled disarmingly at the outlaw and rocked forward on his heels.

            "And I take it you are Mr. Starling? We-ell, _called_ Starling, real name something like Bob Tate. Tate? Tennent? Something like that. Recently of Newcomen, now relocated to London. By the Bridge, if I'm not mistaken."

            "How do you know that?" Starling demanded. The man smiled.

            "I know lots of things. What do you know, Mr. Starling?"

            In response, the man called Starling ran forward, freeing the chloroform atomizer from his wrist and pointing it at the stranger. The man stepped to one side, grabbing the back of Starling's jacket at the last moment. Perhaps he had intended to keep him from exiting the open window he himself had only recently entered from, but Starling writhed in his grip and pulled him closer, aiming directly at the stranger's face. Either that was too much for the two men to keep their balance, or the stranger was mad enough to throw himself out of the window in order to pull Starling out with him.

 

            Starling began to fear the latter.

           

            With that, both the man called Starling and the thin stranger toppled out of the window, their fall broken, and breaking, the roof of the nearby carriage-house. That at least explained to Starling how the stranger had gotten to the window in the first place. The two men tumbled in a mess of limbs, breaking apart with the roof-beams and landing in a mixture of straw and shattered wood. For a moment, Starling squinted around for his attacker in the dark. Giving up on finding the man in the shadows, he took a dark lantern off his belt and lit it, opening the shade as far as he dared. The beam turned this way and that, until it finally fell on the thin man, who was righting himself and pulling a bit of straw out of one of his sideburns.

 

            "Oh, hello." the thin man commented pleasantly. "You weren't hurt in the fall, I trust?" Starling grit his teeth and snarled at the man. It wasn't the fact that he was attempting to put a stop to his plans, better laid plans than this had been foiled before, it was an occupational hazard of being a criminal in this day and age. There were just so many heroes about. No, it wasn't the fight the man had put him through, but his damn affability. His smile hadn't faltered once from the moment Starling saw him.

 

            "What do you think you're doing?" Starling demanded.

            "Oh, being clever." the man smiled.

            "How?!" the criminal protested, "How is anything you've done clever?!"

            "We-ell, I _have_ convinced about half of your men that you gave a command to dress as the Duchess' guard and circle round to the front entrance and attempt to storm it, as to cause a distraction so you could rustle out your hostages to a more defendable position."

            "Even if that's true, then you'd still have a dozen men to contend with."

            "No, the first lot would. Those dozen are the men I convinced to exit through that same entrance, because the mission had to be aborted. You see, the duchess' guard got wind of your plan and were baring down on the orphanage as we speak. They probably should be running into each other about now." He smiled broadly. "I think that's a least a little clever, considering I don't look a thing like you or any of your lackeys. I'm actually quite pleased with that plan. Simple and obvious, but no one ever looks out for obvious plans these days. Have you noticed that?"

 

            Starling leapt forward and the man dove—not particularly gracefully, but he dove—to the left, grasping Starling's free wrist and wrenching it away with a sickening crunch. Starling dropped to the ground, pulling away. Once there was sufficient space between them, he flexed his wrist. No bones broken, only a little pain. He laughed quietly.

            "You're a fool." Starling chuckled. "Nothing you're doing is accomplishing anything."

            "Oh, I'm a fool?" the man gasped, playing at being affronted but not dropping his grin. "I don't know, I still feel clever. After all, I'm not the one who is trying to kill someone one handed and unarmed." He smiled at Starling. Starling chuckled.

            "Oh... why in Jude's name do you think I'm unarmed?" he grinned, reaching into his vest with his free hand. The man in the suit dodged, wide eyed, and stared at the stiletto now quivering in the wall his chest had just been in front of.

            "Ah, I see. You _are_ armed. But I was right about you being one-handed." He attentively and carefully removed the knife from the beam, then turned back to Starling.

            "I take it this isn't the only weapon you're carrying?" he asked, gesturing with the blade. "I thought I felt something in your vest when we fell out the window. Wondered why you carrying that many pens. I carry a lot of pens myself, mind you, not as big as your knives and not nearly so many; but you see I'm always running out of ink and whenever I carry inkwells I just stain my pockets-"

            "Shut up!" Starling exclaimed. "Can't you stop talking?!"

            "Well if I'm talking, then hopefully you're listening to me, and if you're listening to me, hopefully you're not attacking unarmed children."

            "I don't care about the bloody children!"

            "No no no, you're here for the duchess of Rutland, aren't you?" the thin man said coldly. The humour began to drain from his face. It wasn't until he had stopped smiling that Starling noticed how dark and intense the man's stare was.

            "Telling me that you don't care about the fate of eighty-seven innocent children is not helping your case, not at all."

            "Eighty-seven?"

            " _Oh!_ Oh, Mr. Starling!" the thin man gasped, craning his head in disgust. "You were about to take them all prisoner and you don't even know how many there were? One could have slipped away! One could have slipped in, and then you'd have real trouble. If I had known that you'd botched this so badly I wouldn't have gone for such a messy solution." He wheeled his hands in the air, half-turning on his foot. He dragged a hand through his hair and looked imploringly at Starling.

            "I didn't want to hold this against you." he said quietly. "This is just something gentlemen with no other skills do these days; take helpless-looking people hostage or save the same lot. I don't like it, but I can't stop the practice. Just the men."

            "So you're here to stop me?"

            " _Ye-p."_ he answered shortly, nodding. Now it was Starling's turn to laugh.

            "No no no, I'm quite serious, Mr. Starling. I'm going to stop you by whatever means I can. In any case, I've made some progress, disabling your chloroform ejector." said the thin man. Starling checked his wrist. It was true, when the thin man had crushed his wrist earlier; he had dented the thin copper tubing irreparably. And expertly, these ejectors were of an unique design, specially crafted by one of Starling's more mechanically minded underlings. The man had seen the object in passing, figured out how to disarm it, and did so without Starling even realizing what he had done.

            "You might find it harder to take hostages in this state." said the thin man. Starling scoffed.

            "There is more than one way to skin a cat, skinny idiot." Starling spat. "You've only disabled my chloroform ejector." He raised his opposite hand, the one which held the dark lantern.

            "The cyanide ejector is still functioning perfectly, and I won't give you a chance at this one!"

            "Ah, but you can't take the duchess hostage with that, a dead duchess won't do you any good at all."

            "That as may be, but she's not the only one here."

            "Ah, right. Kill me, and then take the duchess hostage. With what?"

            "Not you, skinny. I wouldn't waste it on a neck I could so easily break. This cyanide and those worthless orphans will prove even more effective than chloroform in gaining the duchess' compliance."

            The thin man finally stopped smiling. His face had lost all expression, and it was somehow terrifying.

            "You would kill the children?"

            "Ah, well. That rather depends on her grace." Starling answered. The man stepped half out of shadows, and the light broke his face into stark patches of black and white.

            "Well then, Mr. Starling." said the man carefully. "Now that I know your plan, mine has changed." He dropped Starling's knife and kicked it off the edge of the loft.

            "You've disarmed yourself." said Starling.

            "I was never going to use that knife on you." he said sternly. His voice grew more intense. "I don't stab people." The outlaw readied the cyanide ejector and leapt at the thin man. He spun away, gripping Starling's hand and swinging him around with him. The two men's feet sought purchase on the loose straw and they stumbled apart. Starling slid several feet away and tried to make out his opponent in the slender beam of light from his swaying lantern.

            "You asked me why I thought I was clever, Mr. Starling. I think I'm clever because I'm not the one using an oil lantern in an old stable." the thin man pointed out, his voice echoing among one of many thin, tall shadows, most of which were rafters and pillars, and one of which was Starling's opponent. "What's more, you're trying to kill someone, one-handed, while holding an oil lamp, in an old stable."

            Quite suddenly, the man's voice was much closer than the shadow Starling had taken to be his frame.

            "That's a bit dangerous, you know." he said softly, his face nearly touching the other man's. Starling stumbled back in surprise, only finding the edge of the loft when one foot was in the air and the other was half off floor. His arms wheeled in the air, the lantern shaking wildly and casting more shadows than light. He saw glimpses of the scene around him, the masses of straw, the hole in the roof, the thin man standing so very, very close to him.

            The thin man didn't push Starling. He didn't reach out to save him, either. He simply crossed his arms behind his back and waited for him to fall.

 

            Starling wobbled for a moment more, then fell back, releasing the lantern as if having his fingers free could give him the ability to grasp the air and stop his fall, but the man and the light both fell to the straw below. The man was bruised. Than lantern shattered. Immediately, amber-coloured flames leapt up and spread through the straw, surrounding the man called Starling.

 

            As smoke curled around him, the man in the tailored suit stared coldly down at Starling and the flames. He really ought to do something about this. At least before if spread to the main building. It wasn't that he didn't have a reason to stop this. He had three reasons to stop, but none of them were with him at the moment. His wife wouldn't approve of this, nor would his younger sister. Even his mother in law would have a good deal to scream about when he got home, covered in soot and a bit more destruction on his conscience. He could almost hear the row that was sure to occur the moment he returned, as all three ladies of his house bore down on him.

            Almost, but not quite. They weren't here, and they couldn't stop him. Now he just had to walk away from the fire and keep it from spreading to the main building. There were innocents in there. That was why he had let Starling manufacture his own demise, after all. For the sake of the children. The damn stable could burn to the ground for all he cared, but the children should be protected. The fire could not be allowed to spread to the dormitory. He could probably stop it, even if the entire carriage-house went. The thought, yes, he was sure, he was carrying some fire retardant with him. It wasn't much, but he only needed to cover the part next to the stable. With a roof that flimsy, it probably needed to be taken down anyway. Perhaps that Duchess who ever could be convinced to make a contribution to its rebuilding. He was quite sure he could talk her into it, given that he had just saved her from a great deal of danger and personal strife. Of course, stopping this fire (which Mr. Starling _had_ set, after all) would be a good way to the cap off his active heroism tonight, just the thing to tip the Duchess to aid in the passive act. He just had to stop staring down at the criminal, pacing in his prison-made-death sentence like a caged animal.

 

Starling looked up at the thin man, staring with a cold rage down at him.

            "Save me!" begged Starling. The thin man uttered one word in response.

            "Why?"


	2. VIII- Greed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. McGann, a charming young professor, finds funding for his furthered research through unusual means.

            He couldn't see from one side of the room to the other, it was so thick with rich and important people with high collars and high coiffures. Ladies in silk gowns and gentlemen with embroidered waistcoats chatted quietly, each voice like the tinkling of crystal on crystal, glasses carried across the room to toast some mildly good news or another. A well-matched marriage, a profitable business turn, some blush of interest in their very good but very dull lives. But the dozens of these voices raised a cacophony.

            Moving among these men and women as if he belonged, though aware and uncaring that he didn't, a handsome man in a green velvet coat paused to shake hands and smile at the gentry. He always bordered on smiling a bit to widely, greeting an acquaintance a bit too warmly, holding that brief hug of camaraderie a bit too long.

            But never quite. It helped that he was attractive, charming, and well dressed. It was hard to imagine such a suave and dapper young man doing something _really_ inappropriate, so he couldn't have done. He was just a bit eccentric, yes, that was it. Academics often are. A professor at that college, that's where we knew him from. Oh, my husband went there, it was a lovely school. Oh, did you, your grace? Yes, yes, good old alma mater. Of course, he didn't start teaching until well after I left; look at him. Barely older than my boy, I'd say.

            The professor smiled and shook hands all around, grinning, chatting, patting old fellow's backs and asking after their health. He'd kiss the gloved hands of all the matrons, smiling into their eyes and making them wish they were much younger. And much less married to old, dull generals.

            Long, pretty hair and intense grey eyes, a few of the younger girls queued for dances with him; though they knew nothing more than a dance would come of it. After all, their parents wouldn't approve of the match and he never showed favour to any girl any particular, just remained enthusiastic and attentive to whatever young woman had his arm at the moment. He'd smile and focus those intense grey eyes on them, hopelessly excited by whatever they were saying, like some devoted brown setter.

 

            It wasn't until after the professor had left did an Admiral's wife wonder if she had left the house wearing a ring on each hand, or just her left. Or a new bride would ask her husband to stop dancing and help her find that comb, for it must have fallen out while they were dancing. Or a young lady in her first season would become quite distressed to discover her necklace had fallen off, and try and think of some plan to hide her embarrassment. Or that same baron who knew the man would suddenly wonder where the devil his class ring had gotten to. Always the class ring, never the wedding band.

 

            He felt a little guilt, of course, but he really did need those crystals for his experiments, rubies especially. Those diamonds were also useful, and emeralds. He never took pearl, he had no use for them; though he did admit there were rather pretty. But with the gems his work could continue, he might be able to make something that would surpass steam to power the world, and that was certainly worth a few stray gems. Those ladies were quite lovely enough without them already, and the gentlemen, well they clearly had the wealth to afford losing a trinket or two. And they were lovely as well. Moreover, the pickpocket was sure each and every one of these people had done something to deserve the sin he'd acted on them, but he knew it was all a justification to ease his conscience. It _did_ appease his conscience, but the effect was lessened by the awareness of his own thought process.


	3. VII- Sloth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. McCoy is too lazy to get up and get a pot of tea.

            The room was warm from the fireplace, the air heady and thick. All noises seemed muffled, like thick velvet curtains had been pulled not only over the windows but the entire world. Books and small, half-repaired devices covered every available surface, in some cases making the surfaces themselves. The cushions were deep and comfortable, it was only just late enough to not start a new book or project, but not quite late enough to consider going to bed.

            And the professor had just noticed that he was out of tea.

            His apprentice, a bright young person by the name of McShane, lounged on the braided carpet and watched the fire pop. She trailed her fingers along the floor, tracing the pattern of the woodgrain into a faint layer of soot that has rolled out from the hearth like fog. Hypothetically, it would be easy as anything for the professor to step over her and make himself a fresh pot. But he was just so comfortable, the knit blanket over his lap and the fire casting that glow over his cheeks. If he got up, he might as well get changed for bed. Hypothetically, it would be even easier to ask McShane to go and make a pot of tea for him. It could even be said that was what apprentices were for.

 

            But that was hypotheticals. He never played with hypotheticals, it was always a surprise when they held true. He liked solid facts. Once he had a solid fact, he could extrapolate on it, building a little house as one does by balancing one toothpick on the ends of two others. True, it would be easier to start the house by ramming the first toothpick into jelly; but if the jelly moved at all, as jelly is wont to do, then the whole thing would fall down immediately. Facts were solid, like the top of a table. The professor liked facts. Like the fact there was a tin of ginger biscuits in the kitchen.

 

            "Do _r_ ian?" the professor said.

            He addressed the youth by her taken name. He was the only person in the city who knew her real one and he didn't particularly care why it was she had decided to present with another. Or another gender, for that matter. He hardly employed Dorian--or Dorothy, if you preferred--for her gender. He honestly couldn't care either way; he had taken her on for her genius in pyrotechnics, not her personal pronoun. The professor quite liked the name Dorian in any case. The "r" rolled off his tongue in a pleasing fashion.

            _Sugar and spice and all things nice,_ thought the professor. _That's what tea biscuits are made of._ He couldn't point that out to Dorian, of course. She'd take it as a sideways comment about her gender.

            "Yeah, professor?" his apprentice replied, not ending her staring contest with the fire.

            "You've been staring into the fi _r_ e for ages. Is the _r_ e something in there I should know about?"

            "No, I wouldn't put my face this close if I'd dropped something in there. Besides, room this size? Nothing bigger than a firecracker in the grate, I'm not daft."

            "One has to check from time to time."

            "What? Whether or not I'm daft?" Dorian laughed. The professor smiled back.

            "Oh, no no no. I wouldn’t be asking so ginge _r_ ly about your sanity. There's no doubt about that, my friend." Dorian chucked again. She might not have noticed that she bit her lip at the word “gingerly”, but the professor did.

 

           

            A slight agitation started to make itself known in the tips of her fingers, not drumming but just touching the braids of the carpet, one by one. Index on the red knot, lift, middle on the green, lift, ring on the brown, and lift. Red, green, brown, lift. Red, green, brown, lift.

            "Professor?" Dorian asked, rolling up on her elbow to face him.

            "Hm?"

            "Would you mind if I went and got a biscuit?"

            "I think that's a ma _r_ vellous idea, Do _r_ ian." The professor smiled. Dorian grinned back at him and rolled onto the balls of her feet, springing happily from the braided rug. The promise of a little treat, a little treat she particularly wanted at that precise moment brought a life to her that one might have thought unthinkable from the way she was dozing not a minute before.

            A life, and a joy. The professor smiled. She was only too happy to help him, after all. And if it made her happy it couldn’t be wicked.

            Dorian bounded to the door like an excited animal, exiting the study and leaving the door swinging open.

            "Oh, and Do _r_ ian?" the professor called. "As long as you're up, could you make another pot of tea?"

            "Yes, professor." Dorian replied. The professor smiled to himself and returned to his book.

            “The ea _r_ ly bird gets the wo _r_ m.” he murmured to himself, rolling the Rs around in his mouth. “But the second mouse gets the cheese.”


	4. VI- Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The younger of the Baker brothers contemplates why he enjoys tupping his wife so much. Unsurprisingly, given that this chapter is about lust it contains scenes of a sexual nature.

            It was all but black in the bedchamber when he awoke. He could just barely make out the shapes of what lay around him. The angle of an overturned chair, the drape of a discarded article of clothing he couldn't identify in the tangle, the curve of his wife's neck, mere inches from his face.

            The man smiled.

            He buried his face into her hair, inhaling that distinct feminine scent he'd been unfamiliar with for much of his life. For the majority of his life, he had never seen the point of physical company. He couldn't help but feel, now that he was familiar with the benefits of intimacy, that had been purely because he had never had it. The idea of parting with this new habit, and by necessity, his partner in it, was unthinkable.

 

            This was the only time he ever considered the idea that they--mainly he, to be honest--kept too many cats. There were certain activities that took a sudden morbid nature with a feline audience. But they'd been shut out of the chamber earlier that evening, before the first exertion into exploring bodies that they were more than familiar with at this point. After the second, she'd curled against his chest and fallen asleep there, one knee still locked around his thigh. She was quite lucky to have him, he thought: a man of his age physically able to keep up with a woman her age was rare enough without discussing his other attributes. And those were quite in his favor, at least to his mind.

 

            Her form seemed so tiny next to him, not so much fragile as delicate. He felt as if he could envelop her entirely, wrap her in his arms and pull her body into his. Even standing, he could place his head on top of hers and fit his arms easily around her shoulders, and now, as they lay in bed she rested her head on his chest and tangled her limbs with his, they looked like a pair of dolls built not quite to the other’s scale. Hidden in darkness like this, he was left with nothing but the scent and texture of her skin. And that was more than enough. His arms tightened almost uncontrollably, drawing the curve of her neck to his face. From there he traced a line, tongue and teeth across her flesh until he found her mouth.

            He licked his wife's lips hungrily, as if they were his own. She stirred, confused to be waken like this. There was a moment where he felt her pull into the pillow, her mind still full of sleep and not comprehending what was happening to her. The husband followed her and slipped his tongue between her lips. This communicated the general idea of what he had woken her for. He thought it was quite well that she had woken, he rather doubted either of them would enjoy the experience as much if she had remained asleep.

            The wife reached up and buried her hand into the dense mass of blond curls, drawing him closer. He felt her pulse quicken to match his. His lips bowed on hers, grinning. The two bodies adjusted their positions, trying to close the already minute gap between them. He caught her lower lip in his teeth and pulled back, expelling a short laugh. She replaced her mouth on his neck, nuzzling him like a drunken cat.

 

            Perhaps this action was the only way to display to her how desperately, pathetically thankful he was for her. It sounded ridiculous coming out of his mouth; it seemed his only option was to use it in a different fashion. But it was true. This physical love was the only love had ever known. Or at least, the only love he had ever believed existed. For all their constant bickering, when her body rose to meet his it was the only time he could truly believe anyone cared for him. All his life he'd been met with disfavor, distain, and even open hatred by schoolmates, colleagues, and even his family. Second-born, arrogant, and mad; no one had in all his life loved him before her. It was only when they lay together he could feel like the first choice. The word 'beloved' sounded like a lie unless she moaned it.

            And as for his young bride, she had been abandoned by her stepfather, rejected by suitors, left to the devices of that very twisted soul society so disdained. Some days he thought that she was taking any affection where ever she could find it just as much as he was. Some days he thought he truly loved her. After all, perhaps that was all that love ever was: that burning to be wanted. He wouldn't know. He hadn't felt it before her.

            And that, that moment when the world would disappear into her and all he needed to know was her skin, it felt like the only joy left to his life. And so he sought it. He sought it every time he thought there was a chance of it. There were plenty of sharp strikes with a fan, scolding and fervid arguments that arose from this; but there were also long kisses in gardens, stockings lost in his study, carriage rides where she never took her seat at all. Of course, he had to think of someway to repay her for this tax in their marriage.

            The only way he could think to do this was to bow back to her desires. It was a strange thought, to go to bed with her as a reward for her being willing to go to bed with him. He didn't quite understand it, but he would be the first to admit it was a tidy arrangement.

 

            Their bodies interlocked in earnest, her moans became gasps. The bedframe creaked around them but he paid it no mind, if they hadn't broken it yet they weren't going to. Then even the sound died in his ears, it was if there was no bed, no bedchamber, that their bodies supported each other in space. This was why he sought her out in the night, why he came to her again and again, unsated. She gave him oblivion. The ability to be totally mindless for a moment and ignore the world that was not between his legs. There was no hatred, no pain, nothing but a tiny frame trying to catch her breath.

 

            For her part, he imagined, she either felt humiliated or gratified. She had been put to a task like one puts a tool to a task. A key winds a clock, a pitchfork shovels shit and a wife goes to bed with you. In fact, when he'd woken her with the kiss, he'd half-expected a different sort of tongue lashing, and he wasn't entirely sure that she wasn't just planning on one before the other. Either that or her cravings matched his own. He didn't know which it was; and with his body already engaged with hers; he didn't particularly care.

 

            The gasps became screams. He alternately kissed and bit her neck, lifting her in his arms and pressing her tiny form against his. He couldn't help but be pleased, he'd always interpreted her screams as an indication he'd done his job properly. He hadn't woken his wife to give her an orgasm, but it was a matter of personal pride that it happened regardless. To love another was not a sin. Nor was it to display that affection, even physically. Nor more than it was to eat. It was the lack of temperance that made the hunger gluttony and the affection lust.

            He smiled a wicked little smile. The younger brother was never a man for temperance.


	5. IV- Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elder of the Baker brothers examines his own inventions and thinks about what a genius he is.

            It was true that there was more than one man currently living in London who answered to the name Dr. Baker. There was more than one man employed at the same college who held that name. In fact, most of the male members of his family could be addressed as "Dr. Baker", even his no-account brother, but he hardly felt a few degrees in engineering counted without a solid background in physical sciences. Nor more than that one degree in psychology which he always felt put his brother on the wrong side of a padded door.

            But still, whenever he heard the name he assumed that it was his. He was the most knowledgeable of them, anyway; and certainly the most interesting. Far apart from his work with automata and other devices, and of course his lectures at the college, he found his mind best suited to the exploration of the natural world and spent as much time away from the college studying the natural world. He catalogued the creatures he found, made close study of their natures and discovered the only constant was that in every environment there was some force or creature which capable and willing to cause him harm.

            Granted, usually that animal was humanity, but as they proved one of the meanest and cruelest animals discovered in his travels he saw no reason to leave them from the survey. For the most part, he held much of humanity in open, affable distain; like a child who is too simple to truly dislike. He got better conversation out of his dog, and at the moment its vocabulary was limited to seven words. Perhaps that was why he liked the wild so much, there were so few people in it.

            Of course, sometimes there were people in the wild. There had been that one incident when he found a small girl floating down the Amazon in a hatbox. The hatbox was the part that puzzled him: finding an angry feral child in the wilderness was simply something that happened if you traveled enough, but he never satisfied his curiosity as to where the hatbox had come from.

 

            The hatbox in question now held a place of honor in his parlor. The fact he displayed an old, battered hatbox might have seemed strange, if first he were a more common man, and second if the room was not full of similar trophies.

            There was the odd helmet, knocked off of the heads of wild men and mercenaries who had tried to kill him but he hadn’t had to kill himself. The diplomas for his various degrees, of course, the symbolic keys to cities he could no longer remember the names of. A wreath of exotic dried flowers, which when they were fresh and vibrant had been presented to him by a tribe of grateful villagers.

 

            And all about the room his personal inventions gleamed, masterful works of brass and copper clockwork, kept shined and oiled by the house’s staff.

            Most of them were made for one task, used for it, and brought to this room. Of course, they worked beautifully, but there was generally very little call for sheep-borne brickwork grapples after the Paddington shepherds had migrated, saltwater telegraphs once the Aquatic Stronghold was sieged, or specialized bladed racks for clipping the wings of three-foot bats once the Count’s crossbreeding experiments had been ended. Thanks of course to the blood plasma magnetizer, which not only was horribly cruel to use on anyone without the Count’s condition but had no other possible use. Then of course there were silly things; gramophones with dancing automata, motorized bustles and other frivolities.

 

            He viewed most of his so called inventions as trifles, there was such a fashion for the mechanical arts it was hard to keep any funding if you didn't come out with some clockwork trinket from time to time. But really, it was just an engineering matter meant for smaller minds.

            Of course, if he had to pick the crowning achievement of his career, there was no competition.

            "Kanis Lupis!" he shouted, snapping his fingers. With a series of cranking noises, the beast that had once been an injured deerhound raised its head. The cybernetic hound rose, its two artificial limbs grinding and creaking, but moving in time with its natural legs. It was necessary to make boots fitted to the animal’s feet, or else the animal’s original paws would bleed in an attempt to keep up with mechanical limbs. Thick brown belts harnessed the brass limbs against the shaggy grey fur, and the dog’s clear glass eye rolled freely in its head.

            " _Mäs-tir?_ " croaked the creature’s voicebox. The speech synthesis he had installed with the other augmentations was of a similar style to Wheatstone's "speaking machine", though Dr. Baker was not at all shy to admit that he had improved the model significantly. What pleased him the most about the augmentation was that the animal itself controlled the words. It could recognize him and answer questions in the affirmative or positive, but given that it still had an animal brain its insights were rarely relevant. The cyborg was a clever animal, but an animal none the less. But it served as an animal. Lupis made a pleasant companion on winter nights. Between casual conversation with his secretary at the college, Miss de Voratrelundar, and of course his home secretary, Miss de Voratrelundar, and affection from his dog, Dr. Baker was more than satisfied socially. Of course, the students at the university were always quite pleased to see him, and his colleagues’ envy was entertaining. Even his bratty baby brother had his use. He certainly desired no more companionship than that. It wasn’t as if any of them could speak to him on his level.

 

            Kanis Lupis trotted towards his master, rubbing a cold nose and warm metal against the man’s leg. He smiled and fondled the animal’s ears, but did not see the creature. Not really. He did not see the injured creature that he had rescued, but only the cogs and glass and brass that had transformed it into a masterpiece of engineering, lifting it from the parlour fancy of the age and into a timeless art form. The inventor began to laugh, a terrifically deep, rich, chocolaty sound. The sound of his laugh made him grin wider. Even the sound of his voice was magnificent. The animal seemed to agree, its voicebox chirping out that lovely word. Master. Master. Others would claim the title, but only achievements like this could prove its worth.

This dog was a reflection of his own genius, the only thing in the world worthy of his respect. Himself.


	6. III- Gluttony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Given the choice between enjoying a free meal and giving a damn who thinks he's sleeping with his boss, the third Doctor's steampunk counterpart gorges himself on free fish.

            “Stop pacing like a caged tiger, old man.”

            The general rounded on the gentleman with whom he shared apartments. The old fop was lounging elegantly at the dinner table, a glass of wine in his hand and his feet propped up on the opposite chair. He raised an eyebrow sardonically and took a sip of wine.

            “I had hoped that you would be taking this matter more seriously, Jon.” the general said strenuously.

            “My dear man, when have you ever known me to take anything seriously?” the man laughed.

            “Perhaps you ought to in this particular case. Or at least stop sitting there and filling your maw like a swine at a trough.” the general snapped. His companion pouted humorously.

            “Oh my dear Alistair, that isn’t fair at all. I do not and cannot eat like a swine at a trough, our laundry bill is quite enough as it is.” He punctuated this point by delicately spearing a small piece of fish and placing it in his mouth. “What with your habit of hunting in your dress uniform.”

            “I was _not_ hunting. As well you know, that gentleman needed to be caught and it only happened once.”

            “I never said what it was you were hunting.” The silver-haired fop smiled. “More to the point, my dear, if you don’t dine now, the wine will grow warm and the salmon cold; so perhaps _you_ ought to join me and fill your own maw, as you so delicately put it.”

                        “I shall never comprehend how you could possibly think about food at a time like this.”

            “Who said I was thinking about it?” Jon asked. “What I am doing with this food is eating it. I would like to repeat what I said about joining me, by the way. The meal will only get colder the longer you wear a hole in our carpet.”

            “The meal!” huffed the general. “Do you even comprehend the implications of being sent this meal?”

            “Yes.” the academic said dryly. “Tonight, we do not dine at our own expense.”

            "But the note." the moustachioed man insisted. " 'Wishing the two of you a most joyous anniversary', given anonymously!"

            "Which only proves that they haven't any evidence as to the nature of our relationship." the scientist said shortly. "Had they, they would have known that our anniversary isn't for three months yet."

            Alistair sat crossly and scowled at his companion, then down at the meal.

            “I never did care much for fish.” he grumbled, picking up his utensils. “The flakiness of it is the trouble; some of it always ends up caught in my moustache.” The fop smiled flirtatiously.

            “Worry not, my dear. I’ll be sure to get that out for you.” he smirked. The general set his fork down crossly and scowled at the other man. In turn, the dandy set down his goblet sharply.

            “What, am I to retain an air of formality in our own home?!” he snapped. “I trust your own bed has been turned down tonight; as you are _clearly_ tiring of my company!”

            The two men scowled at each other from opposite ends of the table, each of them with a good deal more that they wanted to say on the subject, but neither wanting to be the one who escalated the argument. At length, Alistair looked away.

            “It would be different if I knew who sent it.” he grumbled. “An anonymous gift of this nature implies rather a lot about the recipients.”

            “I shouldn’t think it implies anything untrue.” the fop commented. “In any case, whoever sent it is out its cost and we’ve received a rather splendid meal. I for one accept the meal and refuse the insult.”

            “That’s hardly the point! This could be the first overtures to the end of my career, and don’t pretend for a moment that I am overreacting. Surely you remember the Wilde trial!”

            The scientist lay down his fork and stared sardonically at his companion, who continued.

            “I’m due for a promotion, you know. But should this business be brought to court I am just as likely to be discharged as made a brigadier.”

            “I was unaware that you had been served anything more than an anonymous dinner.” said Jon. “If this has been become a legal matter I should hope you would have mentioned that as you as you became aware of it, and if not I should hope you treated this with no more dignity than it deserves.” He ate another bite of food and continued, refilling his goblet. “In any case, even if you are discharged, I still draw a salary from both the University and the military, and could support the both of us. Perhaps not in the manner of which we have come accustomed, but quite satisfactorily.”

            “Do you think for a moment this will not affect you?” Alistair countered. “Even if by some miracle you retain your position at the university, you are also a member of the military and will suffer their consequences!”

            “No no no,” the scientist scoffed. “You are _in_ the military, I _work_ for the military. It is an important distinction, old man.”

            “Yes.” said the general coldly. “I am in the military, I have been since leaving the Officer’s Academy, and I do not care for the casual way you speak of my ejection from my life’s work.”

            “You deluded paranoid!” exclaimed the fop in frustration. “You speak as if the matter is settled! Must I remind you that, at this time, the trouble exists purely within your own head?”

            He huffed in exasperation and set back to his meal with gusto.

            “In any case, should your histrionics prove justified, you lose your position in the military and I mine at the university, we are both arrested for immoral practices and the state seizes these rooms and all of our possessions, then surely this is to be the last meal of this calibre we shall be served for quite some time, and if you do not have your serving; then I will.”


	7. II- Envy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The steampunk alternate of the second Doctor, Jamie McCrimmon, Polly Wright, and Ben Jackson decide they can’t exist within this steam powered world without the finest hats known to man.

 

The group moved about the throng, a collection so motely they could have only been brought together through academia. Leading the group whilst having a loud conversation, a young duchess and her batty uncle pointed this way and that, comparing the shop displays to the clothes of the passerby. The pair were as different as night and day; the lady tall, fair-haired and elegant, wearing a striped rose and cream walking dress with a feathered cap. Whereas her uncle was short, scruffy, with unruly black hair and wearing a rumpled suit with checked trousers and a tall, crooked stovepipe hat.

Behind them followed two young men, an airman whom had until recently been a favorite student of the professor and a Scottish bodyguard. Neither of them looked particularly excited about the exertion, although the fair-haired sailor looked more interested in the activity, or at least the duchess. The young bodyguard, however, was more somewhat attentive to his duties. He often took the shoulder or elbow of his charge, alternatively through protection and fondness.

 

“Haven’t ye got an aunt or a cousin or some other lady friend ye might have brought along instead?” he asked irritably.

"Now now, Jamie." the old man tsked. "It's not often we four get to enjoy the other's company like this."

"We get out e'vry week!" Jamie protested.

"Precisely, Jamie." the old man smiled. The young duchess touched the scotsman's arm fondly.

"That's hardly enough time to spend with your very dearest friends, is it?" she asked.

"Aye, so it would be." he agreed. "If it were the only time we ever see each other. You visit with your uncle nearly every other day, and I know for a fact he calls on ye as often as he's able!" Jamie gesticulated to Ben, who stiffened and looked about awkwardly, pretending he didn't hear what the other man said or at least didn't understand what was meant by it.

"And I've barely left Dr. Troughton's company since he employed me." The man in question suddenly made eye contact with his bodyguard.

" 'm no complaining, 'm stating a truth." Jamie added, sounding a bit abashed.

"Yes, but that's all quite different from going out with a collection of friends, isn't it?" said Polly evenly, laying a hand on his arm. Jamie vaguely squirmed inside. He knew he was going to either lose this argument or give up on it, which was the same thing. It was just so hard to argue with a pretty young woman who was being so terribly nice to him.

"I'm not saying I'm not happy with the lot of ye, I'm sayin' I don't know what to do with myself in a- a-" he looked up and read off of the nearest sign. "-'Fine Milliners' '!"

"If the milliner's is so fine, one wonders how they've misplaced the apostrophe." Polly smirked to her companions.

"Well, perhaps there's several of them." the doctor said evenly. He smiled keenly and led his niece towards the door. She thrust out her hand and blocked his path.

"Are we quite sure we want to let you into a hatter's?" she asked, trying her best not to smile.

"Think of it this way." Ben smirked, pulling the young woman's hand aside. "If he's causing trouble in a hatters, he's not causing trouble anywhere else."

"Aye, like trying to get into a hatter's." Jamie pointed out.

"Well, Polly, it looks rather like you are outnumbered." the Doctor laughed.

"I do think I can bring Jamie around on this."

" _Oh no_." the scotsman said firmly. "Ye spent so long talkin' me into this, you're not going to talk me out of it now."

"More to it, there isn't any possible way you'll enjoy yourself if you're carping the entire time." Ben added. Jamie frowned slightly.

"I was just wonderin' what me and Ben would be doing in here."

"Lookin' at hats, I suppose." Ben answered quickly. Jamie glanced pleadingly at Ben, who had taken until that moment to be his only ally in this.

"Sorry, mate." Ben answered. "Did you not notice me tryin' to avoid this entire fuss?"

"Yes, yes." the doctor said dismissively, "Your plight is noted, Jamie."

" 'm just at a loss in ladies' shops, is all." he said weakly.

"That rather is the fun in bringing him along." the doctor added quietly to Polly.

"Eh?"

"Oh, don't worry, Jamie." she smiled over her shoulder. "I'm sure dear uncle won't let you lads get too bored while I'm shopping."

"I'm sure he will, he's worse than you!"

"Utter nonsense." he sniffed. "What's more, I'll buy us all an ice cream when we've finished in the shops, how does that sound?"

"There's no call for that!" Jamie frowned. "Don't need to placate me like a child, I've said me piece an' I'm quite done."

"Really?" asked Polly. "I was just thinking it sounded like a marvellous idea."

"Yes, well, hats and ice cream. A lovely afternoon all around, I should think. In we go."

The older man herded the group into the shop. Suddenly they found themselves in a forest of hat-racks, barely supporting confections of feathers and ribbons and tiny brass filigree. Top hats with decorative goggles matched to the hatbands, subtler caps hiding among the ranks like embarrassed teenagers at a family reunion, touring hats with veiling spread around all around them, ladies' outing hats trimmed with silk roses and ribbons like dainty cakes. The doctor immediately began to grin. He clasped the young lady's hand, they exchanged a smile, and he led her deeper into the shop. The two young men glanced awkwardly at each other and moved forward into the millinery forest. After a moment, Jamie found what they were looking for and gestured to a small, armless chintz bench, which they each took an end of. Straddling the small object, the aligned themselves back to back and watched their companions protectively. The two of them looked like a pair of sentries on the wall of a Roman camp, which stood out rather sharply against their plush surroundings and the joyful exclamations of the shoppers which accompanied them.

"And mind you don't fall asleep on me again." Ben muttered.

"Oi, you did it first!" Jamie protested.

The old man and the young woman thrust hats upon each other, each seeming sure that they knew the other's taste better than their own. The man would, upon occasion, find a hat that suited his own taste, but then only for a minute or two. His attention wandered like that of a bird picking at sparse patches of seed. The pair laughed and joked among themselves, calling for the young men's opinion very little. Of course, Ben told the lady that she looked "a treat" in whatever cap she was modelling, though he almost certainly would have said the same thing if she were bare-headed.

Jamie made no comment, not even when the Doctor came with a bowler and deposited it directly on his friend's head. He examined it there for a moment, then removed it, tried it on his own head and asked the young lady's opinion.

Presently, the proprietor came by where the group had congealed, passing every model of bonnet and boater amongst themselves. In the world of craftsmen, there are two sorts. There are the proverbial cobblers whose children run barefoot as they try to fill the orders they have received. Then there were those who wore the finest examples of their work, objects of their trade they probably would not be able to afford if they were not being made at cost of the fine materials they could not always persuade their customers to buy, worn constantly as a sort of advertisement of their services. The proprietor of this particular millinery was of the second breed.

His hat was nothing short of magnificent; fine stitching, straps to hold it's goggles in place, buckles and plumes just barely falling outside the range of gaudy. The item was so large and impressive that the man seemed to be an afterthought scribbled in under it, the only remarkable feature being a waxed moustache; which appeared to have been grown purely for the purpose of balancing the hat with the rest of his appearance.

"Pardon, sir. We weren't being too loud, were we?" Polly asked.

"Not at all, my dear, not at all!" he smiled, rounding on the party. The man had a faint, vaguely Russian accent. "I merely wanted to greet your happy little group."

"Well, it is always very good to see you." she smiled.

"In any case, I shouldn't want to bother my best customer, should I?" the shopkeeper asked the doctor, gesturing towards him fondly.

"Is that a new one?" the doctor asked, eyes upon the shopkeeper's hat.

"Ah, yes! I've just finished it!" he smiled, turning on his heel to better display it. "I am thinking of making this a regular style in the shop. Tell me, man, what do you think of it? I've always appreciated the good doctor's opinion on the subject of headwear!"

The hatter tapped the brim and leaned closer to his customer. For a moment, neither of them spoke and the professor merely examined the item in question.

"Nice hat." he said shortly. It was earnest enough praise, for all its curtness, and it appeared to please the man. The shopkeeper grinned broadly and strode away, plumes bouncing. The doctor had fallen uncharacteristically silent, staring contemplatively after the shopkeeper.

"Uncle Pat?" Polly asked, leaning her head towards his and placing a hand on his elbow.

"...I should like a hat like that." he murmured at length.


End file.
